Tales from Sun-Toasted California: Part 1; Parking Lot Exodus

I recently took a trip to California with good friends and met many captivating characters along the way. They are too vivid, too colorful to remain cooped up in my mind, so I will illustrate them in my blog. And here is part 1:


Parking Lot Exodus

"Meters, meters, meters!"

Volleyballs create a ripple of small sand explosions as they fall in holes where lightly-toasted arms stretched seconds ago. The hourly parking lot exodus has begun.

Sharleen's sharp eye - so accustomed to following white leather flying through the air - first noticed the white jeep driving through the lot. It was her rallying cry that summoned the other forces. She led them to the lot, snatching a small tin container of quarters from her bag without even aiming. The young, tone ones always fell instep behind her first, with those who were trying to recreate their young, tone years close behind.

"I've got yours Jack, stay put," Sharleen yells without turning her head or losing stride. Jack had barely reached the blue rope that marked the edge of the court. He blamed the wind blowing through his white hair for his delay, but did not argue with Sharleen's order.

Fred and the two Washingtonians remained on the court with Jack and other car-less Sunday beach-volleyball stars.

"She has a parking pass, she doesn't need all those quarters," Fred told the untoasted foreigners. "She brings 'em every week anyways." His words were aimed at them, but his fond smile and gaze followed the cropped dark hair bobbing away from him.

Finding the Concrete in Abstracts

I actually finished this week's assignment early! The point of this exercise was to take an abstract idea (jealousy, loneliness, love, joy, laziness) and describe it in concrete terms. We weren't supposed to mention the abstract at all, so hopefully the idea comes across.

Dione glided between the perilous book towers with her softly bent arms hovering just above her hips.  Occasionally the tip of one of her pianist fingers dusted a leathery book cover and she would pause, lift the book from its Grecian structure, and examine the title. Theo watched through a hole framed by Salinger and Steinback and his breathing slowed to a pace matching the dust particles floating in and out of rays of sun.

She opened the front cover and her eyes skipped across the page, making an impressive show of actual reading. The steadiness of her movements and the picking up of the books were mere attempts to counteract the heart running amok in her temple of coolness. Though she didn’t know which shelf he wandered behind, Dione was sure she felt the power of those miniature oceans Theo called eyes upon her. It was difficult to avoid swaying in their currents, and Dione never swayed. 

Setting down the book she continued her gliding in the direction of the shelves, stirring up aromas of freshly-opened book, day-old coffee, and newly-fallen rain as she went. Her arms now were straight by her sides, making it easier to clench and unclench her sweating palm around a handful of her cotton dress. Instead of watching well structured sentences conjure up an imaginary man, she longed to watch lines melt into sweet puddles in the landscape of Theo’s face. Just as she paused in between the shelves of Dickens and Orwell she felt ink-stained fingers perch on her shoulder. She turned slowly, found those miniature oceans, and for the first time gave way to the undertow. 

Beginnings

We're getting closer and closer to finishing our first short-short story (3-5 pages)...scary! Last week's exercise was about beginnings, so here is the potential beginning for my short-short. Still not sure how I feel about it. 


The silk, with its faint champagne shimmer, had clung to her body as naturally as her skin when she stepped into the gown two hours ago. A single strap clasped perfectly to her shoulder, giving way to a ripple of fabric that hugged her upper body, pooled perfectly around her hips, and cascaded to the ground. Now it was all too tight. A constant awareness of prying eyes straightened her spine and caused her shoulder blades to throw themselves at one another. That heavy sound, the one full of energy but lacking in depth, pulled at the silk. She fidgeted around in her seat, trying to pull back, to regain her comfort. Once she brushed elbows with the man to her left; he turned and winked at her. She sat on her hands to avoid splashing the rest of her champagne in his face. The seat to her right had a tangible emptiness. Looking at the untouched food, fork and knife laying haphazardly across the prime rib, where they were almost put to use, she sighed slowly.

“Ah, you must be the newbie’s wife, huh? Welcome to the circus darlin’,” Senator John Smith number 49 said as he passed by, his evening gown-donning accessory draped over his arm.

The newbie’s wife. When did she become that foreign creature?